Colorful Contradictions
by Suitslover14
Summary: Neal has many memories of different colors. But they always contradict each other, each one has a great memory and a terrible one. Starts with Red and ends with Purple. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

**Red.**

They had to get out, the sirens were blaring, roaring in Neal's ears. A warning, a beat, a clock. He heard the tick of the alarm. They had 30 seconds before security would breach the vault. He looked at her, meeting her ocean blue eyes. Kate nodded and Neal pulled open the air vent. He boosted her up, her red heels dangling from her hands as she used him as a jungle jim. He looked up to see her foot disappearing.

Neal smirked, straightened his jacket and slipped up to the vent, meeting the cool air like it was his home. They crawled through, pushing out the last vent, into the boiler room.

Kate nodded at Mozzie throwing the jeweled band at him.

"Here's the bracelet you wanted." She stated calmly, Neal looked her up and down. Appreciating the way the black jumpsuit fit her curves.

"Yeah, Mozz. That was a real challenge, I hope you like the reward." Neal winked, and took Kate's hand. Leading her back to their hotel room in Paris.

They return and Neal wastes no time. Kate doesn't either. Crawling towards each other, tigers ready to eat their prey. Their blue eyes pierce through the darkness, filling the air with arc-reactor electricity. Neal runs his fingers through his chestnut hair, moving towards the bed. She brushes away the raven lashes lingering on her cheeks. Kate opens her eyes and pounces. Both landing on the bed, pure animal desire. Red meets red in intertwined limbs, sharing love apart, they look out the window at the starry night. The Eiffel Tower in the background. Neal smiles, his lips twisting into a crooked smirk. He pulls out the anniversary gift from under his pillow. A beret, he lays it on his lover's head. She smiles, looking down, shy against Neal's gaze. She lays a hand on Neal's, pulling their fingers together.

"You did good today." She breathes, remembering the thrill that the heist had brought her.

"Couldn't have done it without you, Kate." Neal answers, eyes twinkling. They both know the diamond bracelet is stashed away with Mozzie. Out of sight. Nobody will ever know they took it.

"I love you." Neal promises.

"I love you too."

They're cozy as they lean against each other, body heat coating them in a cocoon. They fall asleep in a little hotel, off the streets of Paris. In love. Trusting. Falling into the bliss of engagement. A ruby ring on Kate's slim finger.

…..

Heat pushes against Neal's skin and he wants to run. Towards her, he will always go towards her. Kate, her name is his heartbeat. It gets quicker and he struggles to make his legs are iron, bolted to the ground, his arms liquid against his restraints. He has a hatred for Peter. Why won't he let him go? Why does he hold him back?

He watches in horror as the plane falls apart. the flames eating the frame. He sees raven hair floating in the wind and he holds his lunch in. He wishes he had been in there. He knows it wouldn't have changed anything. Other than him being dead too. But he still wishes it, wishes he held her hand at her last moments, wishes that his last sight would have been his fiance. The ring on her delicate, milk, finger. He cries on the inside, too in shock to let the real tears flow.

"No!" Neal yells, his heart shattering in that one word. He watches the red flames burn away, leaving ash and dust. The plane a distant object, blown away by the wind.

He's broken, he feels his soul leaving a shell behind, the breeze threatens to throw him down but Peter's holding him up. Neal melts a little, drawing back, shutting down. He doesn't want to believe it, it has to be a dream. God, he wishes it's a dream.

"No. Kate. Kate." He whispers, letting the tears roll down.

The event seeps in and a switch is turned on in his mind. An impulse shoots through his body, he has to do it. Find it. He needs it.

He wants to rummage through the remains, pull the frame apart. He wants to see the shining jewel. He knows Kate still wears it. He thinks he sees a shine and surges forward. Only to be yanked back, a dog on a leash. He bucks against his partner, anger flaring up. He just wants to find it. The reminder that he needs. But Peter still hold him. The plane explodes, smaller this time, a new crate opening into the ashy air. Peter gawks, stumbling back at the pressure.

Neal falls to the ground as Peter's arms tear away. Peter caught in awe at the wreckage. Neal kneels on the ground, face coated black in soot. Peter tries to look him in the eye but Neal evades, jaw set. Peters steps back, leaving the rabid man alone. Afraid to be bit.

He scrambles forward like a rat looking for cheese. He races past the firefighters and Peter goes after him. A surge of protectiveness keeping him going, even after his skin starts to heat up. He collides with his CI, taking him down.

Neal roars, obsessed, controlled. He needs to find it. It's all he'll have left when the scent of her shampoo fades away. When her photos rub off and all that's left is a shiny blank sheet of paper. When he can't hear her voice or paint her face.

The smoke swirls around them and Neal sees his holy grail. The brilliant ruby glints against the charred pavement. Neal's eyes set on it, tricking him into the night in Paris. The blackened sky is nightfall, the blue and red lights are the stars. He pulls himself out of the delusion, he can't get sucked in.

He stretches arms out wide, clutching the ring. His only reminder of the life he wanted. Marriage. Kate. The comfort of love. The life he had been promised since birth. A good one, one with his girl, one without law, one where he's not reminded of the days spent in orange. But he settles for letting Peter guide him back to his life in New York. Because a part of him knows that Peter will be there to pick up the pieces. Give him a life better than his own dream. Neal sighs and follows Peter, silent. He knows this is what he needs. He needs to let time fade away the gruesome past until Kate is just a ghost. Just a whistle in the wind. Gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N So here is the next installment to the fic, I hope you like it. Please review so I can gage the level of interest shown in these because I'm not too sure if I'm going to continue. Also if you have ideas for any of the upcoming colors I would love to hear them!**

**Orange.**

Orange wasn't a color to Neal but a feeling. Orange was his mother's smile, orange was pristine suits and fine wine, orange was Peter and Mozzie and El. Orange was Neal's favorite color, representing everything good in his life. He remembers the day it became that. morphing from pumpkins and candle flames to happy memories and ferris wheels.

_Neal walked into the theme park, slowly strolling on the cobblestone path. His blue eyes scanned the area, taking in the rides, the kids running about and his neighbor, Juliet. He had it bad for her, daydreaming about kissing her under the moon. He blushed and ducked down when the blonde lifted her head up, laughing at her friend's joke, a twinkle in her beautiful brown eyes. He needed her like air, needed to hear her laugh, be in her space, needed to love her, kiss her, be with her. But she was just his friend and Neal cursed himself for being so damn responsible, so damn smart and kind that it was impossible not to reserve him for friendzoning. _

_He walked up to her friend group, slipping between Tasha and Sophie. _

"_Hey Jules," He greeted her, big smile and wide baby eyes. _

_She glanced over at him, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder, the orange ribbon in her hair drifting in the wind. She smiled at him with a passion Neal felt. He took a step back, afraid of this new feeling between them. She giggled at him and took his hand, her long slender fingers slipping through the gaps between his. _

"_Neal, let's go on the ferris wheel!" She screeched, racing between the crowd. Pulling Neal upright when he stumbled on a little girl. _

"_What about your friends?" He shouted, gasps coming quicker between his breaths. he welcomed the chill in the air that cooled his overheating cheeks. _

_Could she like him? Did she? Neal didn't know, he was only 14 and not too wise on what occurred between a girl and a guy to make her like him. _

"_Forget them! They'll be here tomorrow. I need to reserve you for tonight though." She said cryptically, a smirk appearing on her perfect freckled face. _

_Neal laughed and skidded to a stop when the reached the line. Juliet slipped the two blue tickets to the operator and took a seat on the rickety wheel. Neal joined her, pushing down butterflies and trying to convince himself that it was real. That the girl he had been pining over for the last several years had finally saw him as a potential date. He surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, throwing his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him and he closed his eyes in pure bliss, the wheel slowly turning. Bringing them up to the top. _

_The view took Neal's breath away, the skyline lit up with brilliant hues of orange and yellow as the sunset. He sighed happily, glad to be with Juliet, watching the pure beauty that was his hometown. _

…_.._

Fevered dreams awaken him, silver bars trapping him in. An animal, a criminal, a beast. He's not allowed out even as his throat burns, his blue eyes turn red. He begs for water and is beaten by the guards. A taser whips in between the cage into his still feels the spark, feels the burning before the world faded to black. Still feels himself choking for air, hitting the cement bottom, blood dripping onto the ground. Forming rivers. Still can hear the cursing of the guard even as he's being lifted. As he's drifting away.

He wakes up later in the infirmary, orange jumpsuit dirtied with blood and charred with a taser burn. He tries to move but groans when he yanks against the handcuffs. A dog chained. But its not right, jails couldn't handcuff him. Hospitals could, Neal blinks, white bed, normal gown. His head aches, his lungs burn. He's thrown back into the fantasy a second later.

"Useless!" The doctor cries, thrusting a needle into the back of Neal's hand. Blood bubbles up and the man smacks Neal on his head. Brown hair flops in front of his face and Neal jerks back, surprised at its maroon tint. He coughs and sputters, each one depleting his air supply. Gray rings in his ears.

"Breathe Neal." Someone calls and Neal remembers how. Draws in a stale breath his hand flies up to hit a dome covering his nose. He's confused. A man leans over him concerned brown eyes peering.

He shuts his blue ones, reopening him to another scene. Another sickness. Another man. An evil doctor in the prison infirmary. Black eyes smile at him when he vomits, his lungs are drowning and he can feel it. Liquid sloshing in his lungs. Pneumonia, the answer fills his mind but he's too tired to care. Too tired to care that his lung is collapsing and he can't breathe. Too tired to register the needle slipped into his lungs, sucking out all the mucus stuck there. Weighing down his breaths.

He springs up, breaths deep, eyes wild. The room is tinted a clear blue and it takes Neal a moment to realize that his oxygen mask has been knocked askew and up in front of his eyes. He hears a chuckle and footsteps and whips around, scared. His gasps when he sees Peter and the man freezes.

"You okay, Neal?" He asks, his voice strained, raw from crying, from the nightmares. From coming to Neal's apartment and finding him on his bed, staring off, stuck in a hellish delusion.

"What happened?" Neal asked. Confused. Not knowing where he was, when he was.

"You have Pneumonia. I found you, brought you here."

For the first time Neal stops and looks around, actually seeing the room. He's in the hospital, clinical white bleaches the walls, chairs, clothing. Neal smiles, happy not to see the cement walls, the silver bars in the infirmary. He wasn't in prison, Peter wasn't the evil doctor. He was safe, fine and far away from the days he spent in orange.

He had a partner, Peter. And be would be just fine.

**A/N Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, once again please drop me a review I would love to receive feedback. Have a great Winter Break!**


	3. Yellow Part 1

Yellow.

**May or may not reinstate this. But I figured I wrote this, might as well post it. Review ? **Neal has always loved Lemons. The zing of the sour as it dances over his tongue is his favorite part. But the smell, its always been special. His mother smelled like lemons, her hands would waft the scent as she picked him up, kissing him on his cheek. She would bake lemon cake, hiding out in the kitchen for hours as she mixed various ingredients, humming an _Annie _tune at the top of her lungs.

He almost cried the day that Peter offered him lemon cake on a stakeout.

"El made it, you know it'll be good." Peter coaxed to a denying Neal.

"No, I'm good." he lied, rubbing his chest like he could rub away the ache from missing her.

It wasn't that Neal didn't want it, he wanted it like he wanted his childhood. It was that he knew the first bite he took he would burst into tears. He knew that the tangy taste would lead to a long road of longing and wishing and he just couldn't have that. So he denied even as his blue eyes lingered on the slice that held so much of his mother.

On his mother's birthday the year Kate died he sucked on lemons the whole day. Peter looked at him weird as he puckered and whimpered on the sour taste. He didn't understand the ritual, how it was the only thing that made Neal feel like he was with her. On that hill in their backyard. watching the deer in the woods. They would sit out for hours, watching the deer pick through the daffodil field, roaming and playing. He loved the fawns, they would trip over their legs, folding them underneath their bodies as they fell. He loved watching them act like it was intentional. Those days were always windy and would carry his mother's scent over the fields like a pretty note of music.

He has always loved lemons. So when Peter invited Neal to a good old-fashioned picnic and promised lemonade he instantly agreed. Receiving another odd look from Peter, he shrugged and said any company with El was good.

"You get too close to her and I'll shoot you!" Peter warned and Neal rolled his eyes.

"I'll stay a whole Diana away." he promised as Diana muttered something under her breath.

Later that afternoon Neal was strolling up to a picnic in the middle of a daffodil field and he chuckled at the similarity. The familiar ache burned in his chest and he stretched a special smile across his cheeks. El waved him over, her dark hair blowing across the wind. Neal swore he could smell his mother's lemon scent right then and there. Sitting on a classic red and white checkered blanket he took deep breaths, struggling not to break down. Not to cry at his childhood in this day.

He tuned out Peter as he spoke, closed his eyes as they moved around and jumped when they yelled something.

"Happy birthday!" El and Peter shouted, Diana coming up behind them with a perfect lemon cake.

Neal stopped fighting then, allowing a few tears to roll down his cheeks. He forgot all about his birthday.

"Do you not like it?" El asked, a pout on her lips.

"Not like it? It's perfect, how did you know?" Neal breathed, hugging her tight.

With or without his Mother she would always be in his heart. He had a new family too, one that remembered his birthday even when he forgot. He would never forget this day. He would never forget how special they had made it for him.

El passed him a slice and Neal sighed. This, this right here was home.


	4. Yellow Part 2

Peter saw it coming like a car accident. He could see the disaster in slow motion but couldn't do anything about it. Peter loathed not being able to do anything about it. He saw Neal topple over the rose bush, saw the thorns sticking to his hair, clothes, skin. Saw the lazy bee floating around land on Neal's hand. Saw Neal flapping his arms, still trying to keep his already gone balance. Saw the bee sting him, the wince on his face.

Then like a snap of his fingers, time was moving again and Neal's clock was ticking. Peter flew across the grass as Neal's curses splintered his ears like glass. He muttered his own under his breath, pumping arms and legs to get him to Neal. Somehow, he had made it from one of the yard to the other, he didn't quite remember how. His CI was already panting like a dog stuck in a heat wave, face red, eyes starting to glaze. Peter kneeled on his hands, loosening the tie. Damn Spring, Damn the garden party, Damn the dog that ran Neal over. Peter placed his fingers over Neal's clammy wrist, letting the beats ground him.

Neal wheezed, feeling the breath elude him. He hated bees, little demons with stingers. He knew why the world needed them, he just didn't understand why the world needed him to be allergic. He had felt the black stinger penetrate his skin like a bullet slicing through his brain. He knew he had limited time before his measured breaths fell short. He knew he should have brought his epi-pen but it was just a garden party.

Neal had just wanted to sit with June and El, drinking bloody marys and fanning himself with a newspaper. Talking to them about whatever cuisine, art or events came up. But then he saw Peter's niece walking toward the fountain. The 3 year old could climb, but couldn't swim. Nobody wanted a drenched and half-drowned toddler. So he had excused himself, and run across the yard to pull the little girl away. Babbling about how pretty she looked in that dress to distract from the fact that he moved her from where she wanted to go.. A second later he was laying on his back on an actual bed of thorns, watching the bee with the too-good timing screw him over.

Neal could feel the life slipping from his hands. The seconds dripping out like grains of sand from a permanent hourglass. The pile of sand growing at the bottom while his life dissipated. He struggled to flip on his side, brown hair flopping back and forth while he puffed heavy breaths. Peter still in his counting trance. He tried to speak then,the words he needed spoken humming on his tongue. Trapped in by the fact that he didn't have enough air to choke them out. So he whimpered and kicked his legs, alerting Peter to the fact that he was moving, wasting more of his air than he had been allotted. He shushed him, rubbing circles on his back like he could rub more air in, more time into the hourglass piling up, up, up. This was it, he knew it, so Neal breathed out and let the rest of the sand

fall

out

slowly.

**There will be a yellow part 3 which is just a continuation of this chapter. Review?**


	5. Yellow Part 3

Everything was on fire. His breathing was like the night sky on the fourth of July. World War 3 was in his lungs, His back arched as he coughed, feeling like blood was pouring out of his veins and into his coffin. Was this Hell? He always knew that he wasn't the best man. That he was a thief and a criminal and a liar. But he had tried so hard to make up for it. Because he hadn't always been that way. When you are found alone at 17, no money for college, no job willing to hire a guy who barely passed high school; there's not much you can do. He got involved with the wrong guys who saw his passion and used it against him. Somehow, he thought that his life with Peter now was like an eraser to the past. A fire burning all the incriminating documents. Apparently not, because he was in a cave of darkness with only his pain to accompany him. For the first time in a long time, Neal let his company be the sound of his sobs.

"Dammit," Peter cried, his fist throbbing from where it connected with the wall.

"Honey," El soothed, cradling her blonde husband, kissing the point of his nose.

He wasn't better, Neal wasn't better. Peter had watched Neal through so much. Had seen him through the pain of Kate, through the vault without air, through his Father's betrayal, Peter had seen Neal in his pain, in his need, in his vulnerability. Most recently, he had seen Neal through the ambulance, through not breathing, through a coma because Neal just had to get into whatever he could. Neal was a forger and Peter couldn't help but wish that he could forge a life, his and live in it again. Because it had been a week and he still hadn't woken.

The worst part of Hell? The voices, Neal could hear June and Peter and El speaking to him. Taunting him, reminding him of that life that he lost. To all his sins. He could hear El's stories and whispers, her prayers. He could feel June sitting by him reading a book, just glancing over. He could hear Peter's fist connecting with a wall. And that was undeniably cruel even for Satan. He could deal with the burning, the darkness, the loneliness. But being constantly reminded that he used to have a family? That was too much. Neal was breaking out of this place, and soon. He didn't know if it was possible but he was coming back to them.

The next time that Neal heard Peter's voice his ears perked up. He slowly rose ignoring the stab in his lungs and swung his legs over the bench he was on. It mostly sounded like whimpering but it was enough for Neal to follow.

"Neal, please."

Neal heard slowly moved through the cave, arms out like a zombie. He swiveled his head around, hopelessly trying to see anything in this insufferable, pitch-black cave.

"Need you."

Neal followed the words like a bread trail, small steps, full concentration on what was an echo and what was the direction they were coming from. More words and steps and listening and swiveling and tears. Frustration ran lava under his skin, boiling and bubbling up. Where was it? He had been turning in circles for hours. Long enough for Peter's smooth voice to fade into a sleepy mumble into faint sounds of slumber. He bared his teeth and growled, a low noise erupting from the pit of his anger.

"Neal!"

The noise rang out clear from above. No echoes, no muffle just crisp sound. Neal looked up, a smile bursting on his face. Just a few feet above was a door.

"Can you hear me?"

The question brought another smile on his face as Neal shouted, "Yes! Yes I hear you."

Neal scrambled, fitting his fingers on the small divots in the cave walls, boosting himself upward. He climbed to the sound of Peter's pleads to come back. Eventually hitting the door, Neal ran a hand over the thick and smooth oak. He pushed against it, the door creaked against his strength, filtering light into for a few seconds before falling back down. He took a second, panting, to bring in more air. Preparing for it again, Neal heaved, flipping the door fully open. In front of him was Peter's face, eyes hovering over a thin pressed mouth.

"Neal, you're okay. I-I was so worried," Peter cried, voice cracking.

"I was coming back, just had to escape." Neal panted, tilting his head to find himself in a... hospital?

"Escape? Neal, where?" Peter asked confused.

"Hell."

Peter chuckled, then seemed to realize the tone in Neal's voice as his brow furrowed. Leaning over the railing to Neal's bed, Peter stroked his hair. Had Neal thought he died? Gone to hell? Peter wondered if Nela had such little thought of himself that he would believe he deserved to burn for eternity.

"Neal you didn't die. You were in a coma. And you weren't in hell. People like you don't go to hell," Peter sighed, settling his hand in Neal's.

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." Neal replied

**Yellow's done. I wanna thank you all for your feedback and reviews! I don't know when I'll get green done as next week is finals week (and I can never seem to be consistent) but I hope you liked yellow. Review if you want to :) Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 1 of Green is up. I apologize for the weight summer school just started and its been killing me. Hope you like it!**

Green was the rolling hills in Scotland. Sharp grass crunching underneath Neal's feet. He was scanning the hills overlooking the sheep and the rough, gray water. For a single bald head with thick, coke bottle glasses.

"Mozz?" He called out, squinting his eyes in the harsh sun, "you wanted me to meet you here. Is everything okay?"

He heard a loud shush ring out through the stagnant air. Biting back a laugh, he turned on his heel catching Mozzie's eyes.

He was leaning against the icy wall of a pub, a beer bottle in hand and a red beanie tucked over his ears. He looked freezing in the frigid Scotland winter, no mittens or a scarf but a single, navy blue peacoat more fashionable than reliable.

"I'm trying to hide from them you know. You saying my name is not helping," Mozzie scolded, a light in his eyes despite the scowl etched onto his vampire-esque face.

Neal stepped towards his old friend, wrapping a hand around the beer and pulling it away, replacing it with a cup of steaming coffee. He furrowed his brow, streaked with water from the drizzle, "Who Mozz? Are you in danger?"

"A buffoon, he's about your height, brown hair, crystal blue eyes, all the girls call him dreamy."

"You mean me?" Neal asked, eyebrows flying up in surprise.

Mozzie cracked a smile, "of course. It was a joke, what with your accusations of my paranoia I had to get back at you."

"I was worried Mozz. I care about you, don't take advantage of that fact."

"All caring opens up a door of attack," he reminded, waggling a finger in front of Neal's face.

They walked along the stone path now, taking in the sights of the town. Neal opened his mouth for a question, closing it again when his phone rang.

"Is that the phone I called you on? You should have ditched it!" Mozzie screeched, plucking the dark phone out of Neal's fingers and pressing the call button.

"Remy's Drycleaning, Remy speaking. How may I help you?" He recited in an awful Australian accent.

"Remy?" Neal mocked, only to get a finger in his face.

"Caffery cut the crap. We know you are in Scotland. Care for a meeting place?" The Suits voice rang out.

Mozzie quickly hing up, chucking the phone into the murky lake, and ducking under the awning of a hotel.

"Mozz?"

"The Suit he knows you are here. If you and your forger ass want to stay out of jail we need to move fast."

Neal nodded and sprinted down alley, stopping to slide into a little antique store. He greeted the plump female owner with a nod and a charming grin. Hearing footsteps, he quickly grabbed a thick leather book, opening up the worn pages and slipping on a look of pure concentration.

"Dammit how do we always lose the guy. He's god damn Houdini." The suit muttered and Neal barely held back a laugh.

As the footsteps fell away, Neal turned to the old lady with a smile.

"Hey Miss, I was wondering where's the nearest hotel?" He asked, voice smooth.

"Hotel? No. No. You may stay with us, it's cold out there and you boys look like you could use some food!" She spoke in a thick Scottish accent, tugging off Mozzie's coat and clucking her tongue, " a peacoat will not keep you warm. Come!"

The two conmen shared a quick and humorous glance before shrugging and bounding up the stairs behind the kind lady.

"You don't have to do this Ms..." Neal trailed off politely, leaving room for her to insert her name.

"Call me Meredith. And I do have to do this."

"Well we appreciate it Meredith," Neal said sincerely.

She tutted pushing a bowl of baked potato soup in front of the boy and left them to eat.

The rest of the night was spent with board games and food and Meredith mother hemming the boys. It was the first time in a long time Neal had felt so loved. And it was spent with his best friend the whole time. Like a sleepover he never knew he wanted

**Review?**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Part 2 of Green! I hope you like it. Blue is up next but I have no idea what to do with it. Any suggestions? **

Neal cried out as the boat lurched forward, tipping him into the railing. He groaned and slumped down the side, clutching his stomach as the nausea rumbled his stomach. Neal decided this op was the worst decision of his life the second his foot tapped onto the wooden floor of a fishing boat. Then it just got downhill from there. Scrubbing the deck, fixing the sails and leaks and the smell. Oh god! The smell of rotten fish and week old BO. Neal was sure he'd never get it out of his hair. All for a corrupt sea captain who was using the nets to fish in old artifacts from the sea floor, restoring them and reselling them for millions. Neal hated that man even more than he hated Fowler.

Another wave rocked the boat and Neal clutched his stomach tighter, praying he wouldn't puke. The last man to be seasick ended up having to clean the captain's quarters for a week with the flu. It was hell already, being the new guy with his perfect hair and charming smile and his damn cologne. He knew how be undercover but damn, this was hard and he got sea sick and those little patches did little to quell the flaming hot ball rolling around in his stomach.

Slowly, Neal rose from his seated position, swaying slightly with the motion of the waves before rounding the boat and going to find the rest of the crew. He greeted Skipper, the young lad who had originally brought him upon the boat, showing him his quarters and politely pointing out the showers and pantry. Apparently the rest of the crew would leave someone to stench or starve before laughing and jokingly shoving them towards whichever they needed more. The rest of the week resembled a frat hell week, with Neal scrubbing toilets and begging at the knees for mercy from his mates.

Turning the corner, Neal tugged off his orange rubber boots, massaging his toes before collapsing on the bed and returning to the rocking motion in a little ball. He whimpered when they hit a big wave, curling further in on himself.

"Hey man," A voice called from the corridor and Neal rolled over with a huff, blowing a piece of greasy hair from his eyes, " If you're sick you should be in the infirmary. You're looking a little green," Skipper stated, frowning down at Neal.

Neal chuckled, stopping abruptly when it sent his stomach lurching. He roared to life, jumping from the bed and sliding to the toilet. Neal gagged, deep heaving breaths trying to contain himself, before heaving messily into the clean(ish) bowl. Flopping down onto the floor, he fought the urge to cry.

"Gross," Skipper joked, wrinkling his freckled nose and flushing the toilet before placing a hand upon Neal's clammy forehead. Humming, he turned to a little cabinet in Neal's bedroom, returning with a thermometer and slipping it under the man's tongue. Neal groaned indignantly but settled down with a glare from the Irish man.

"'M fine," Neal talked around the device and pouting.

"Sure man, sure. Then why does it red 102?" Skipper asked, raising a bright red brow and leaning over to pull up Neal.

He waved Skipper off, rising to his feet and ignoring the buzzing in his ears. Walking the few feet to the creaky bed, Neal sat down on the edge and buried his face in the dusty, plaid comforter. He couldn't be sick. Not with this case, not right now, not with the evil, cruel man as his captain. He could get stuck on kitchen duty for the rest of the case. He could- the thought process was ripped from Neal's mind and he toppled onto his knees and quickly crawled back to the dingy bathroom, gripping to bowl and heaving again.

Skipper patted his back and turned to leave, speaking over his shoulder as he did, "Sorry man but Captain Briggs needs to know, you need the time off."

Neal was too tired to argue.

Closing his heavy lids, Neal slept for days only popping open his glazed eyes to race to the bathroom or the sink in enough time to puke, then slowly shuffling back to the bed, scratching the feeling that his skin was too tight from his mind.

Neal tossed and turned, throwing his eyes open to glance around the small room. He gazed at the wooden frame to the glass portal. Mesmerized as blue grey waves lapped at it, a pleasant splashing noise accompanying it. He pulled back the covers and stood, wibbling on his legs before gingerly walking through the hallway. He pulled up to a heavy, black door, pounded his fist on it before it swung open.

"The dead rises," Skipper greeted, word slurred from a bit of whiskey. "What brought you here?"

"I just wanted to say thanks," Neal smiled, truly grateful that someone on this stupid boat had a heart, " I mean it man, I needed that rest."

"Well I'm just glad you look a little less green," Skipper responded motioning for Neal to slip into his quarters and join him for a night of poker.

**A/N I hoped you liked it, even though the comfort came from an OC. Review?**


	8. Chapter 8

**I know it's short but I think it's sweet. It's about his dreams that flashback to a certain memory when he was two. It acts like a dream so there are random jumps through the small piece. I hope you like it. **

He didn't dream of good things often, through all he'd gone. His Mom's death, his father's fake death, real betrayal, Mozzie and Peter and morals and all this complicated shit he'd never think he'd have to deal with. Not him. he had just been a little boy, taken the wrong path in the woods at the wrong time, after all he'd already been visited by the wolf. What was he supposed to be afraid of, but chance?

But once upon a blessed blue moon Neal would dream of something happy. He'd feel the snow on his face, hear his blades cutting deep into the ice. He breathed in fresh pine air. Snow lit his cheeks on fire, his lips blue and eyelashes wet. He'd dream of the circles, the figure eights. He'd dream of his family, together. He was two, a wobbling mess on ice, chubby feet slipping and sliding. He dreamt of falling backwards, scared of getting hurt only to be lifted in strong arms. He flew through the air, his plaid scarf flapping in the wind of the movement. Looking back, he could see his Father's face. This was the only good memory he had of Dad. Pure innocence and love, before all that had happened. Before all that had tarnished the idea of a father in his mind. of his Father.

The dream would jump forward, warm cocoa in his stomach, he was laying in a lap, watching the flames in the pit. He remembered thinking it was beautiful, reaching out his fingers to touch the magnificent, flickering thing.

He was crying, hurried footsteps stomping on the stairs. Harsh water splashed his hand, it throbbed. The water helped, followed by a cream and a bandage. Once again he looked up and his father's face was staring back. Worry and compassion filling the same blue eyes Neal had.

Warm bed, warm noises, he yawned. Flipping onto his back, two year old Neal watched his Father and Mother kiss in the doorway. Love, that was the last time Neal remembered his Mom happy.

Bittersweet, Neal would wake up. Sadness twinging his heart with waves of nostalgia and warmth. In those stolen moments, Neal loved his Father. He just wished in life he'd stolen more. Wished his family had been together longer. That he'd lived with his Dad longer, respecting him before the only image in his head was ruined. But that was for another day and all Neal wanted was a cup of his Mother's cocoa.

Hot water, steam puffing out, Neal sipped his mug with the last remnants of his dream lapping at the corner of his mind.

Maybe that day wasn't a reflection of his life, but blue would always be the simplest of days on the earliest of his memories.

**Blue part 1 done. Hope you liked it. Review?**


	9. Chapter 9

***Waves* See I'm not dead. Sorry for the wait but I hope you like it. Read and Review?**

"Peter I'm flying!" Peter sprung up, his heart racing and sweat beading his forehead.

He fumbles for his phone, crunching it with one hand and dialing numbers with the other, smearing sweat up and down his screen.

"Neal pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up." Peter mumbles, getting out of bed and pacing.

"H'llo?" Neal's voice greets, slurred with sleep. Peter laughs at how he can still hear the dream in Neals voice. "Peter?" The man on the other side asks and Peter realizes he's just been holding the phone and breathing heavy.

"Hey Neal," Peter says awkwardly.

"Is there something you need? Is someone hurt, is there an emergency?" Neal asks, his voice calm. But Peter can tell the underlying worry sticking out.

"No, I just…." Peter trails off unsure how to say what happened.

"Bad dream?" Neal asks in that nonchalant way that makes Peter feel out of place. Like a nerd stuck in a locker.

"Yeah, sorry for bothering you," Peter says, moving his thumb to hit the end call button.

"Thanks for calling," Neal replies before cutting the connection.

A few minutes later Peter's phone lights up in his hand, jumping around with its ringtone.

"Neal?" Peter asks, confused why he'd call back.

"I have them too you know. Dreams. You wanna talk about it?"

"No, no please. But… I wouldn't mind if you-you know- continued?" Peter ends, uncertain.

"There's this one I can't get out of my mind. It's about you and El."

"El?"

"Yeah, now shush. It happens on a steak-out. And I can't- I can't for the life of me- figure out why she'd be with us. But she is and we're in Canada helping out some feds in Ontario. The car breaks down in a snowstorm. We're stranded on the road. " Neal pauses for a moment and Peter knows it's to collect himself.

"Something hits us. A car? a deer? I'm not quite sure but it sends the car tumbling. "

"Tumbling?" Peter interjects.

"Tumbling. Down a mountain." Neal gasps, his charade of calm edging out of place.

"Neal you don't have to continue."

"Yes I do. Anyway the next few moments are a blur-literally. White swirls in my vision and there's a bunch of noises when suddenly the world snaps back into place. You and El…"

"El and I?"

"You're, she's, it's unreal. Her eyes are open, a gash on her head. God, those eyes haunt me. And you-you're slumped over the wheel, neck turned at an unnatural angle." Neal pauses another long pause and Peter hears him clear his throat.

"We're partners, it's going to happen. We worry about the other getting hurt. No matter how much those dreams scare me I know you're gonna be there in the morning." Neal concludes, hoping he helped Peter feel better.

"Thank you, Neal." Peter says, " See you in the morning."

**Okay so it wasn't really all that traumatic or 'bad' but with all that happens in White Collar I just wanted to touch on nightmares for the both of them because I imagine this thing happening a lot. I hope you enjoyed it. Review and leave suggestions for purple, I have no idea what to do with purple! Thanks!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I've decided for the last chapter(s)- don't worry a good chapter is still to come- I'd end one of them the way I started by touching upon Kate. I've also mixed it up and this is the bad chapter with the good to come. I just want to thank everyone who encouraged me to restart this series and continue where I left off. Thank you soooo much. Also thank you Thesaurusgirl for recommending wine as a purple chapter!**

He sets his paintbrush down the purple paint streaking the floor of his apartment. His eyes are overflowing with tears and there's purple in his hair and on his clothes. There's purple in his soul and wine's overflowing from his mouth. He's drunk, a dozen canvases painted and burned in the span of a night. He's edgy and he just can't settle down. His mind is screaming at him, begging to let it out. Neal wants to wreck everything. Tear everything down until there's nothing left but his pain and the bruises he's sure are evident on his heart. It has been beaten down, been blended to nothing but blood and pain and the tears that Neal's eyes never stop producing. Kate's death was just a week ago and he needs to move on.

He knows it's not healthy to stay this way. Neal knows the night isn't meant for midnight drinks and 2 am paintings and the blood in his sink from his nightly puking. He knows dreams aren't meant for screaming or for haunting. They're for escaping but they haven't had that idea in a week. Neal can't stand his bed anymore, it's littered with empty wine bottles and the paintings so lifelike to Kate that Neal can't bear to destroy. It'd be like losing her again. But now Peter's been looking at him with his detective stare, noticing the slump to his shoulders and the tear tracks tattooed on his cheeks. He has to find a way to break the spell. But he feels like it's betrayal to Kate. She died. He loved her. He should feel this way. Neal knows it's the grief talking but he wants to let it continue. To drag him under and drown him until he doesn't resurface.

Its why his hands are shaking as he holds the black trash bag and scoops the bottles into it. He flinches as they clank against each other. His eyes dart around to avoid looking at his paintings. The ones that make him curse his talent, make him want to beat his hands until the bones are broken and he can't hold the damned paintbrush. Neal slips out under the moon and out to the dumpster. He counts the stars like the reasons to keep his sanity. His head is lifted up to the sky as he stumbles and a voice cries out a _be careful_, the trash bag flying out of his hands and into the man. Peter stumbles back like he's been shot as Neal connects to the sidewalk.

" I knew it!" Peter shouts as he examines the bag full of wine bottles. "Neal you need help," Peter dies off when he sees Neal on his back staring at the sky with no move to get up.

"She was everything Peter. And I keep staring at the sky and counting the stars like my sanity but what if none of it's left. What if she took it with her?" Neal asks. His heart is in his throat and he's suffocating. Love is nothing but all encompassing.

"She didn't take it Neal. She just… borrowed it." Peter says and squats next to Neal. "Keep counting the stars like your sanity. The sky is endless and so is your strength. You convinced me to break some loser out of jail on a kind of human leash." Peter jokes, nudging Neal with an elbow.

Neal nods; a single jerky movement but still a start to something near trust.

**Y'all know the drill. Hope you liked it, please leave a review, and happy October!**


End file.
